


Subliminal Messages

by GiedrenK



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, Case Fic, Dream Sex, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Top Sherlock, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 15:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiedrenK/pseuds/GiedrenK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock both want something. They just don't know what it is. They're certain that it couldn't be the other person. Or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first time writing any fanfiction. I don't have a beta, so feel free to comment if you see any errors or things that are wrong. Feedback would be awesome, even if it's to tell me it's horrible... Also it's probably going to be 3-4 chapters in length. And I have no idea when the other sections will be posted... Hope you enjoy it:)
> 
> Also, the F/M I noted above isn't between any of the actual characters

As Sherlock entered the flat, I could tell something was off. He might like to think that I have no observation skills, but I think I'm fine when it comes to him. I've been his flatmate for a while, so I've been able to deduce some things of my own about his mood. Turning in my chair, I can see that his stride is shorter, posture slightly slouched. The dark circles around his eyes are darker than normal. Though his hair still looks unkempt, his curls line up with each other, like how it would look if he was running his fingers through it. 

"Is everything alright?" I ask, trying to confirm his current temperament. 

No response comes. Of course there isn't. It'll be one of those nights. If I sleep, I'll have absolute silence while he's thinking. I give up on him for now, pick up my laptop, and bring it with me to bed. When I arrive in my bedroom, I shut the door behind me, and turn on the ceiling fan. Silence doesn't work for me. That's one of the reasons I got a flatmate in the first place. 

After changing to pajamas, I lay under the covers and prop my laptop on my thighs. I stare at a new entry to add to my blog. Nothing comes to me, so I open a new tab and close the blog one. I search for some porn. The silence of the flat painfully reminds me how lonely I am. I haven't had a relationship for a long while, which is sad. I've been visiting porn sites frequently. Sherlock's room is far enough away that I can get off with out him hearing. Since it's him, though, there's probably something he's noticed about me to give it away. He hasn't mentioned it, though. I strip down to my pants, trouser and shirt thrown on the floor. 

The video I choose features a blonde woman giving oral to a pale, skinny, and tall man with curly black hair. The woman isn't getting anything out of it, but the man is euphoric. The act is super hot. It was filmed with such high quality that it seemed like I was in the room. I know that rubbing my cock isn't going to be enough for this, so I lube up my fingers with saliva. I'm not gay, not by any means, but I did experiment in college, and I know what I like. 

I rub my arsehole with my middle finger while my pointer and ring fingers hold my cheeks apart. My middle finger slides in, up to the first knuckle, and I gasp. It has been a very long time since I've opened myself to anyone in this area, and my body protests the pain. I remove the finger and repeat, this time deeper, with limited pleasure. On the third insertion, I push in the entire finger length. My body no longer regects, but rather welcomes, the penetration. I push a couple more times before adding another finger. The two fingers work in opposite, scissoring, directions. The sensation makes me moan quietly. Adding the third finger allows me to hit the prostate. As it is touched, I buck up into my hand, adding a different aspect to my rhythm. My fingers hit my prostate with every thrust. My moans and gasps are growing loud and, though I know some of it is blocked by the fan's noise, I should quiet down. I know I can't keep myself contained though. I try to muffle my sounds by putting my forearm in my mouth. It doesn't really help. My body starts shuddering and I feel my gut constrict. My balls tighten and I release my load with a grunt, onto a towel I keep on hand. 

That's when I hear the gunshot. I jump to alertness, or as alert as I can in my post-orgasmic haze, pull my pants back up over myself, trip on my strewn pajamas, and rush into the hall in a haphazard manner. I arrive in the living room of the flat just after the second shot. 

I find Sherlock siting in his chair, gun in his hand. Of course.

"What in the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" I yell quietly. "Do you happen to know what time it is? Most people are sleeping WHEN IT'S TWELVE THIRTY!"

"I'm stuck," he says dully.

"You're what?" I ask, increduously.

He takes a short breath before replying. "I'm stuck. I can't figure this one out. I needed something to do to get my mind off it."

"Can't you do something quieter?"

"Oh, you mean like wank, like you were doing?"

"How did y-"

The detective raises his eyebrows. "Honestly, John? Have you seen the state of yourself? Your body is fighting the urge to fall asleep even though there's adrenaline pumping in your veins from your military reaction to the gunshots. Your hair is more tosseled than usual. Your pants are extremely bunched up. Your eyes are wide, pupils still dialated. Your thighs are red from where your laptop rested. There's dried ejaculate on your hand. And I could hear you."

"Did you shoot the wall to get me out here to tell me to keep it down?" I ask, slightly shamed, mostly annoyed.

"I would never," he says innocently. 

I rise my eyebrow. "Do you really expect me to believe that?" 

"Of course not, but you believe me anyway."

I shake my head. "No matter the real reason behind the gunshots, you need to find a better way to cope. As your doctor, I suggest wanking. It's a great way to deal with stress. Or real sex, but your not interested. In anyone, I mean." I don't think anyone is interested in him either. I could never be interested in someone as emotionally cold as Sherlock. 

"But it's boring, and not even enjoyable. It's thoroughly taxing."

"Not enjoyable? You must be doing it wrong. What do you do? What do you think about? No explicit details, please. I don't want nightmares." 

"I work through cases I haven't been able to solve, thinking about the latest advancements in the field of architechure material efficiency, what to do with your stupid blog. Things like that." 

"Ok, first off, my blog is not stupid. It's your source of income, as I keep telling you. Second, and more importantly, why would you ever think that those are ok topics to wank with? Most people watch porn, replay past sexual endeavors, or fantisize people or actions. You know, things that have to do with sex. At least promise me you'll try."

"For you, I will. But it won't work. I've tried before."

"When?"

He looks away for the briefest moment, but I still noticed. "You'll laugh."

"No, I won't."

"I was fifteen the last time I bothered trying to enjoy masturbation. It was a tedious task, so I gave up on trying to enjoy it. I still have to if I have a stiff in the morning, but I don't like how dull it is."

"Try it with better thoughts, and maybe it'll be better the next time."

\-----------

Sherlock is trying to wank in his bed. He couldn't come up with anything sexual from his memories, being a virgin, and he can't come up with anything on his own, so he turns to his laptop. He loads up the internet, deduces which pornsite won't give viruses, and searches for videos on male masturbation. He's never been into women or men, but he might learn some techniques from the videos he watches. 

He picks one. It features a blonde male on the shorter side with firm muscle tone and calloused hands. Sherlock mimics what the man does. He pumps and twists in time with the man, moaning very quietly every so often. The pace speeds up, and Sherlock's moans grow louder. He grunts in pleasure when he comes, thick liquid spurting over his hand. He sets his computer to the side, shuts the screen, and gets up to wash his hands. He comes back and falls asleep. 

He wakes up much sooner than he expects, only an hour after settling in. He identifies the reason he's awake. His body is aroused, but not in the way he's used to. This is much different. There's something wet on his cock.

He's shocked at what, no, who he sees. "John! What are you doing?" 

Taking his mouth of Sherlock's cock, smiling, John says "I heard you come earlier. I wanted to hear you again."

Sherlock is still wanting to know more, but when John puts his mouth back on his cock, Sherlock loses his train of thought. It feels so wet, so different, but, oh, so good. Sherlock moans as his pleasure increases. 

When John starts humming, Sherlock writhes though stiffly, back coming off the bed. He runs his fingers through John's blonde hair and grabs it in handfuls. John works ever more diligently to please Sherlock. One of John's hands massages Sherlock's balls, the other slides up his chest, playing with his sensitive nipples. The assult of new stimulation Sherlock feels pushes him over the edge. His muscles contract, sending his fluid out of his cock, down the waiting throat of the doctor. 

Sherlock wakes to find a pool of fluid under his facedown body, cock chafed, John no where to be found. None of the sex with his flatmate was real. A wet dream. A remarkably vivid, never-to-happen, wet dream. He feels a wave of relief, but also something he can't quite figure out. Hormones can trigger many reactions to different stimuli. That's all this is. He could never be interested in someone as emotional as John. Emotions don't come naturally to Sherlock. He'll need to think on it further, but it can wait until the morning.


	2. The Symptoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock solves the case he couldn't figure out the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's confusing, John's POV is first person and Sherlock's is third, changes marked with dashes.

Flashback

We were up at St Barts, earlier than usual. Sherlock really wanted to finish this case quickly. He did. As he always does. It turned out that the mailman was the one sending the bomb packages. I still don't exactly understand how Sherlock figured it out just with a scrap of charred cardboard. But before we left, we saw Molly preparing to work on a body. Greg Lestrade was also there. Sherlock took one look at the cadaver and it's chart, and said "That accidental drowning wasn't accidental."

To which, Molly replied with, "Yes, he committed suicide, poor bloke." Her frown darkened her typically cheery face. Lestrade confirmed it.

"No, he was murdered." 

I stood there dumbstruck. There's no way he could tell with just the dead body.

"There's no way it was murder. He was overwhelmed from his job, anxious for the flight he would have taken that morning. It wasn't murder," Lestrade said.

"Nope, it was murder. I'll let you know when I have all the pieces." That's as close to Sherlock saying "I don't know" as I've ever heard.

\----------------

When I wake up, the sun is glaring in my face. I hate how the drapes don't cover the entire window. I sit up and grab my laptop. My to-do list says that I have errands to run. Great. If only Sherlock would actually do anything to help out around here. 

I write out a list of the shops I have to go to, so that when Sherlock gets up (if he's actually sleeping), he'll know how long it'll take me to arrive when he inevitably will contact me to tell me to come. Since nothing I do is important, and everything he does is. He's insufferable sometimes. 

By the time I dress, eat breakfast, and shut the door behind me, Sherlock still isn't up. He had no trouble staying up last night, the nutter.

\-------------

Sherlock finally gets up early afternoon. His thoughts immediately shift into an outline, most pressing matters to attend to at the top. The case he's been working on is first, followed by checking his website, then researching or experimenting with the effects of asp venom on postmortem tissue (for a side case), then eating, then what happened the night before. He doesn't want to think about it at all. Until he has ample time to only focus on what the dream could mean, he doesn't need the distraction. He's far too busy with this Yard case, anyway.

Sherlock sits at John's computer looking for information for the case. He has the general means, opportunity, and the murderer figured out, just not the motive and MO. It's not enough to go to Lestrade with. He needs to focus, but when ever he notices that he's using John's computer, he's reminded of the dream he had had the night before. Sentiment and the chemicals associated with it are powerful things. And then it hits him. 

"Of course! Only an idiot wouldn't be able to see it," saying it to no one. He chuckles to himself, then texts John and Lestrade to meet him up at Barts.

He hops in a cab and hurries on his way, giddy for finishing it, yet mad that it took him so long.

\---------------

As I arrive at Barts, I know exactly what to expect. Sherlock'll give Greg and me the "I know what's going on" look, and we'll have to wait for him to grace us with his superior intelligence. Prat. 

He's still impressive, though.

I walk into the examining room, and since Greg, Molly, and his highness himself are already there, Sherlock begins his stream of words.

"So. We know that the man a flight for a business trip scheduled for the next morning, and due to his air sickness, would take scopolamine for it. His wife says he would go on trips like these often. Now, when the body was found, there was only one scopolamine patch, the normal amount for most trips. However, his blood work showed double the normal dosage. This means that it had to come from something else. Sure, he could have taken extra scopolamine orally or intravenously, but since he had no needle marks on him, that rules that out, and he wouldn't want to risk ingesting it only to vomit it up if that were to happen, so that leaves him not taking it willingly. Who was around him the time of death, his wife. He's vice president of an export business. She stands to gain much in his death. She used her landscaper's knowledge of botany, and they together used it against him. Scopolamine comes from the belladonna plant, from the family nightshade. Every part of the plant is extremely toxic. She must have crushed the berries in his wine with the dinner she made him since alcohol makes the affects worse. Scopolamine overdose causes many side effects such as blurred vision, confusion, and hallucinations. Either she led him into theor pool or pushed him in. Either way, he wouldn't be able get himself out, so once he drowned, she called the authorities and told them it was suicide. She and the landscaper get away with their affair, murder, and all he left her in his will."

There's a long silence while he waits for us to respond. Greg and Molly stand there dumbfounded. 

"Do you ever breathe?" I ask, trying to hide my wasted admiration.

"Out of all the possible questions," Sherlock starts, "that's the one you ask?"

"It's a valid question." I stare at him with determination.

Greg clears his throat. "Hm. Well, nice work, Sherlock. I'll just go and arrest the wife." He looks between Sherlock and me awkwardly. "Molly, you should probably come with me to get the paperwork sorted."

"Right," She looks at her feet. "Of course. Goodbye John, Sherlock." Her gaze lasts a bit longer on Sherlock, but then she and Greg leave.

It's now just Sherlock, me, and a corpse left.

He starts. "You're just mad about last night"

"Oh, right. Like I was keeping you up."

"It was distracting."

"Well had you been in your room asleep like any ordinary human, you wouldn't have even heard it. I didn't have to shoot the bloody wall!"

"I already told you. You are not why I was shooting the wall. I was stuck on the case, but now I'm not anymore. The wall should be safe for now."

"Mrs. Hudson will not be pleased, that is if she doesn't know by now. And I think the real reason was so that you'd see me in naught but my pants."

"It’s not my fault you don’t wear trousers to bed," Sherlock laughs awkwardly and suddenly stands up. "I think it's time I went back to the flat. I have done quite enough for one day.”

As he strides out the door, I whisper, “Narcissistic prat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, please post comments with feedback or errors you found!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Again, feedback would be greatly appreciated.


End file.
